Feelings Stick
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Crowley deals with his feelings for Aziraphale by writing them down in a journal, intending on keeping them a secret for as long as he can. The journal, however, has other plans. Aziraphale x Crowley


"No, no, no, no, no," Crowley mutters, tearing through his flat, rifling through drawers and underneath sofa cushions, searching … searching …

When he comes up emptyhanded after a third full sweep, the swearing starts.

"Shit, shit, _shit_! Why me!? Why now!?"

He flings himself down on the sofa, hopping up onto his feet again in pain when his back hits the metal springs hiding within the cushion-less frame.

"Come on, come on, come on," he growls, pulling hair out of his head as he attempts to remember where he last saw it. He has his suspicions. And if he's correct, everything could go from Heaven to Hell in a handbasket in a less than …

_Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz._

Crowley stares at the end table, at his phone vibrating its way across the glass top, the name _Aziraphale_ displayed across the screen, white letters laid over an image of orange flame.

… no time flat.

"_Shit_!"

Crowley debates letting the call go to voicemail. It would be the first call from Aziraphale that he purposefully let go to voicemail ever.

He doesn't want to do that.

Besides, he'd be a coward if he did.

Crowley hasn't done anything wrong. Everything he wrote in his journal? 100% true. It's the culmination of every confession Crowley ever held back, the words he didn't say when he had the chance. When they would have mattered, could have changed things.

They would have come to light sooner or later.

He was hoping for later, of course. Not necessarily this particular Wednesday afternoon.

On the other hand, it _is_ a nice sunny spring day outside - one of the first rare warm days they see in London this early in the year.

A perfect time to face the music.

He scoops the phone off the table before the last ring and answers the call. "Yel-lo."

"Crowley?" Does Aziraphale sound anxious? Or is it just him?

"Hey, angel," Crowley says, cool to counter Aziraphale's nerves. "What can I do you for?"

"Oh, nothing really. I just … I have a question I'd like to ask you. If you don't mind."

"Yeah?" Crowley sighs. He knows. He just … he knows. "What is it?"

"I think …" Aziraphale swallows so hard, Crowley hears it over the line "… did you … the last time you were by the shop … did you leave … a journal? With a … with a black leather cover?"

Crowley slaps a hand to his forehead and scrubs it down his face. _Shit_! Mother … fucking …

Book girl!

This is all _her_ fault!

Crowley didn't want to start a journal. Writing his deepest thoughts and desires in a diary like a love-sick teenager?

That wasn't him.

She'd mentioned it as a lark, as in, "What an amazing life you must have led! All the things you've seen! You should write them down! Maybe get them published! Even if no one believes a word of it, it could be seen as an incredible work of fiction!"

Crowley doesn't know how it happened, when in the conversation he mentioned it. Was it after his sixth vodka shooter or his third bottle of whiskey? But before he knew it, he was a melancholy mess, droning on and on about how not a single thing he's done in 6000 years would compare to his greatest adventure – falling in love with an angel.

For her part, book girl listened to every pathetic word, and in the end, she still felt the journal a good idea. She thought it might help him work through his feelings for Aziraphale.

How they don't seem to be reciprocated, even after all the time they've spent together and everything they've been through.

If Crowley had a journal, he could put those thoughts in a place where he could catalog them, re-read them, sort through them rationally. Then, in the end, when he was ready, he might simply turn it over to Aziraphale, let him read it, and they could go on from there.

Or he could set it on fire and move on with his life. Whichever suited him best.

She did warn him though that things like journals tend to take on lives of their own, and if he's not careful, it might choose to reveal itself in its own time, not his.

It seems as though that's what it may have done, seeing as his last trip to visit Aziraphale marked the first time ever he'd taken his journal out of his flat, and when he left Aziraphale's bookshop, he was completely sober.

So leaving it wasn't a drunken mistake.

"Why do you think it's mine?" Crowley asks, giving himself time to think.

"I … I don't," Aziraphale stutters, lying. "I … I saw the handwriting. I thought it looked familiar."

"I take it you've read it then?"

"N-no." Another lie. Usually they're not so easy to spot. Aziraphale is a decent liar … about things he doesn't care too much about.

"Angel …"

"I'm … I'm sorry! I didn't recognize it! I've never seen it before! I didn't _read it_ read it if that's any consolation. Thumbed through it to see where it belonged in my shop. I didn't realize till …"

"It's all right," Crowley interrupts in the interest of putting poor Aziraphale out of his misery. "Not your fault."

"Thank you."

"Yeah. No problem."

Then, silence.

Crowley figures he should go over there and pick the damned thing up but he doesn't want to. Cat's out of the bag. Let Aziraphale read it, cover to cover, and come to his own conclusions about where Crowley fits in his life, if there's a place for him outside the one he occupies now. That elusive _something more_ Crowley has been hoping for.

But maybe that's not them. Maybe it isn't meant to be after all.

"Crowley?"

"Yes, angel?"

"Did you … did you mean what you wrote?"

"About?"

"A-about being in love with me?" Aziraphale asks softly. "About loving me since the day we met? Dreaming about … about kissing me?"

And even though Aziraphale's tone is difficult to decipher over the phone, even though he could very well be preparing to let Crowley down or worse, Crowley can't help smiling hearing those words come out of Aziraphale's mouth, imagining every break a pause he's using to catch his breath. "Every word."

"Oh …" Aziraphale hiccups "… my dear boy!"

"Yes?"

"Come back here! Come back here right away!"

"What? Why?" Crowley asks, the agitation in Aziraphale's voice concerning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Aziraphale says, the word brightened by a giddy laugh. "Come back here … and kiss me then!"


End file.
